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TURNING EARTH 



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TURNING EARTH 








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Copyright, 19x3, by / 
Harold Vinal 
Boston 


©C1A7C66610- 

JAN-9’24 

Printed in the United States of America 
Published December, 19x3 


'KO 'V 


TO HAROLD C. DALTON 



Certain of these poems are reprinted through 
the courtesy of Poetry: A Magazine of 
Verse; Voices; The Measure; The 
Lyric; Contemporary Verse; The 
Lyric West; The Christian 
Science Monitor; and 
other publications. 


CONTENTS 


Ballet Divertissement .i 

Migration. 2. 

Noblesse Oblige .3 

Heritage. 4 

Ploughshares.5 

Circumstance. 6 

Nadir.9 

Circle.10 

Finite .11 

Penetralia.12. 

Homily.13 

Question.14 

Amoroso .13 

Response .16 

Symbols.17 

Sentiment.18 

Song.19 

Time That Is Long in Coming.2.0 

Gardens.,.2.1 

Equation.2.2. 

Crowded Street.13 

Phases. 2.4 

Magnet.2.5 

Nostalgia.2.6 

Mullein Charm.17 

Flail.2.8 

Conviction .19 

Dreamers.30 





























Afterglow.. . 

Urns of Light. 3 1 

Ebb Tide.. 

Worlds May Darken. 34 

Cessation.. 

Indifferent ..^ 

Impulse. 37 

Peccavi . 3 ^ 

I Could Be Cressid.. 

Gulls . 4 ° 

Irreducible. 4 1 

A Word That Was Made. 4 Z 

Inalienable.. 

Broken Walls.. 







BALLET DIVERTISSEMENT 


Only a moment had the light been low, 

Peroni had ascended as austere 
As Tarsus’ Saul; the baton spoke, the clear 
Wood voices rose; a mouth twitched on an oboe, 
The garnet velvet swung, rhythmic and slow . . . 
The marble dancers swayed; their eyes were near 
And mystical, I went up without fear 
Over the dark pit and a gleaming bow. 

All color broke, the bright sound lifted me, 

I whirled and leapt, no weight could pull me down; 
I turned to gold, the strings twirled Shubert’s Bee, 

In green I floated over hill and town . . . 

Flashing my cymbals, mad with victory— 

Peroni bowed; I smoothed my old black gown. 


MIGRATION 


We who touched in passing, 

As bird wings might brush 
In a swift migration, 

A whirring rush— 

How a crowd can crumble! 

Shall we ever know 
Why our glances hurled surprise 
And we trembled so? 


NOBLESSE OBLIGE 


Women who grieve because your hair is dull 
And no pale violet shadows fringe your eyes, 
Who weave no witcheries when your smile dies, 
Think of the cost of being beautiful! 

Skin that is white as a sunspattered gull 
Turns many a face white with despairing sighs, 
The greediest ears grow tired of constant cries— 
Daft importunings only death could lull! 

Time that releases others does not set 
A Helen’s lips free from the fancier’s touch, 
Such hands as hers the earth cannot forget— 

All lovers of the lovely know as much . . . 
Helen must wish, her weary ghost must crave 
The comfort of a homely woman’s grave. 


HERITAGE 


A house may hang its rafters high, 
It might as well be small 

And underground, then stifled flesh 
Would not strive at all. 

Quiet feet would never rail 
Against a narrow way, 

Dumb lips never haggle 
The word to say. . . . 

White in the windy orchard, 
Sweeping the pollened lane, 

Burning apple blossoms toss 
In the rain. 

They are smothered by no roof, 
Wild they swing and free! 

Tethered to no rafter— 

Yet nailed to a tree. 


PLOUGHSHARES 


In the end they will give over all their hating, 

They will cry, Why, why have we not done this before! 

Swords will be turned into pruning hooks. They will know 
An eye for an eye means that endlessly—and more. 

In that day wisdom will have come to them, 

They will know that what is theirs is not really theirs, 

Guests, laborers that have come for a short stay, 

They will hasten to fashion the ploughshares. 

The red, the brown, the pale skins will be the same color, 
He who loves one land and he who loves another, 

Will stretch hands saying, Live your time in peace! 

Friend, they will call eagerly, Sister! Brother! 

White birches will fringe the blue world, gold sun will flash, 
The fetid, the gross will go, for lack of hate, 

Feet will be agile then, eyes deep with quick light— 

For you, for me, will that day come too late? 


CIRCUMSTANCE 


Cleptra flew silently, her head held low, 

Motioning the others to follow in a slow line, 

Turning from their whipping wings and the restless shine 
Of their eager eyes. 

Cleptra flew steadily, watching the earth below, 

Not once did she look to the gold flowering skies. 

This was a hard task and one she must not shirk. 

Others had tried and failed, now Cleptra must succeed; 
They may have cared little, great was her need, 

This was her high chance! 

Faith had been shown in her, giving her this work, 

Now she must prove her strength by molding circumstance. 

This child had been sent for many times before, 

But there were two to guard him, instead of one. 

Father and mother—they left nothing undone, 

Love of two is strong! 

The angels sent to take him found an iron bolted door, 

The child must go to others who had waited long. 

He must wake love in others as he had in these, 

They had been self-wrapt, indifferent, till he came 
Drawing them, whispering to each the other’s name . . . 
Till their cold eyes met. 

When he was born to them they skimmed the deepest seas, 
The pain that pried their hearts loose, they would not forget. 


Cleptra came at dawn to the house of the child, 

Her brow was firm, her cool hands stretched out to take, 
Hours she worked to lead the child down to the lake, 

He must go alone . . . 

When the mother drooped wearily Cleptra smiled, 

The father was in the ravine painting colorful stone. 

Cleptra was swift now . . . Bathers on the beach 
Tossed light laughter and green water in the glinting air, 
A loud cry is feeble when there is none to care 
The child went down . . . down . . . 

Only a small pebble’s fling beyond their reach; 

But two, a youth and woman made Cleptra frown. 

These were two prescient ones, they were light in flesh, 
Cleptra threw wing shadows across their quick eyes. 

She beat the wind to stifle the child’s cries, 

The angels crowded ’round; 

Out of light and tumult they wove a blinding mesh, 
Hurrying, stunned, the two searched for the dying sound. 

The youth leapt in, the woman ran to the men, 

4 4 A child cried and went down!” The angels fought for time, 
Their whipping wings turned the sunny lake cold as rime— 
Ice drove men ashore. 

Only the youth undaunted dove again, again, 

He rose, and Cleptra wept to see the thing he bore. 


The woman had gathered help. They took the boy 
Labored for hours over him, but Cleptra too 
Worked as she prayed and hoped she might have strength to 
do— 

At last Cleptra won. 

Calling to the stricken, “You will find strange joy!” 

A band of angels soared into the setting sun. 


m 


NADIR 


That was not Mary’s darkest hour 
When her son hung dead, 

Nor was she stricken when she first saw thorns 
On His lovely head. 

Mary knew wounds could not hurt Him, 

Jeers could not bring Him low, 

While the burning faith in Him turned the pain 
To exultant woe. 

But oh the desolate moment 
When the light was shaken— 

The cruel hour when His broken throat cried 
He was forsaken. 


CIRCLE 


A decade is a whiff of smoke, 
Distance is the same, 

The breath of a carnation wind, 
The whisper of my name, 

May take me in a shattering flash 
Many miles away 
Into a blur of candlelight 
Where white hands lay. 


FINITE 


I did not question anything 
As I went through the sun, 

I watched the light wind crackle 
And the grass run; 

Thin shadows huddled in my path 
When the dark came down— 
Then I found myself a stranger 
In my own town. 


PENETRALIA 


I must grow small or daisies must grow high, 
So I may know again their friendliness. 

Only a child’s knees find the daisy’s mouth, 

The close caress. 

Somehow I must forget the sight, forget 
A thousand trivial impeding things! 

The fragrant whirling in a strip of wood, 

The rune it sings, 

Are not for one who is too far and dull 
To see a pebble’s weight and know its might, 

Who cannot smell a flash of robin color, 

Or feel the light. 


HOMILY 


If one would throw the world away for you— 
Standing before you stripped of the sweet earth, 
Naked in spirit as a child in birth— 

On that cleft day be careful what you do! 

I love you is star girded and moon white, 

No other words can lift so far, so high, 

Life is no more to lovers than a sigh, 

Yet love may vanish in the brightest light, 

Is a blue clouded mountain climbed in ease? 

Are cataracting rivers swift to swim? 

Beat on your heart, oh do not spare your knees— 
What if you break your breath, turn your sight dim 
You are at the high source of seven seas— 

Shall you drink deep, or only graze the brim? 


41? > 


QUESTION 


If I love you 
Shall I demand 

Touch of your lips, 
Touch of your hand? 

Is love a gift 
Or masked desire 

Taking fuel 

For its own fire? 

Shall I give 
Only for gain? 

Should love give wings 
Or a chain? 


AMOROSO 


How can I tell whether you cured my eyes 
Of blindness, or whether you blinded me? 

Certain it is, the world that used to be 
Simply familiar now is otherwise. 

I am like a daft purchaser who buys 
The first coat or the last rapt eyes may see, 
Knowing that somehow, inexplicably, 

A fancy is not born before it dies. 

You, whose breath on my lids has done this thing, 
Undoubtedly will give me greater pain, 

But now all life for me is suffering, 

So breathe! I am parched for your breath again! 
Beloved, I will grope from place to place, 

But give me sight enough to touch your face! 


RESPONSE 


I think I might have quelled my love for you, 

Going my way sufficiently serene; 

I could have been content to lose the keen 
Joy—and the sorrow . . . faring as one who 
Foregoes the sweet to shun the certain rue, 
Relinquishes the deeps for the safe mean. 

Oh reason is an aloe that will wean 

One from the breast of folly, and I knew . . . 

I might have saved my nearly squandered strength— 
A stoic has no bitter debt to pay— 

My love might have been quite subdued at length, 
Had I not turned on leaving you one day, 

Had I not taken you by swift surprise 
And seen a new grave open in your eyes. 


SYMBOLS 


Through century on century, 

Helen must reign—gloriously! 

Elaine upon her lily bed 

Must sail and sail, though she is dead. 

Down to Camelot she must go, 

We like to look upon her so! 

These are the symbols we like best: 
Imperious Helen, Elaine at rest, 

Cold as the north pole,—Helen, the south; 
One had a white brow, one a sweet mouth; 

One a lover, one forced to refrain— 

(Does it matter now, Helen, Elaine?) 


SENTIMENT 


Call me a simple fool, I am 
No more—if I were less 
I might destroy a puling heart, 

Pound it to nothingness. 

Then I might rock my bones in peace, 
Ache for no absent face, 

Say calmly, “One who goes is gone.” 
And never curse the place. 


SONG 


It seems very sure to me, 

A still voice will sound again, 

There may be a stranger round 
Tone in what was once thin rain; 

When dawn trumpets, there may be 
One note added lifting high 
From a place where sands are shifting, 
Earth resweetened by a sigh. 

Could song vanish utterly? 

Snuffed flame only changes form, 

With the crumbled rose it ranges 

Where the thrush’s light notes swarm. 


1 


TIME THAT IS LONG IN COMING . . . 


This is the solace I have learned, to wait 
Hushing the urge of my impetuous heart, 
Curbing the wretched yearnings when they start, 
Checking the surge of love or grief or hate. 
Though hate may sear hot as a withering noon, 
Though love may cast a spell of blinding light, 
Or grief seem gruesome as a bleak midnight— 
Time that is long in coming passes soon! 
Although I may be goaded by the blare 
Of the tumultuous thing within my breast, 

The thing that has capacity to care, 

And caring always will not let me rest— 

I hush my heart and wait another day, 

I tell myself, this too will pass away. 


GARDENS 


Gardens may flaunt their geometric skill, 
Premeditated paths and patterned ways, 

Rose pergolas that twine the lips in praise, 
White marble fountains, many a terraced hill. 
Eyes may delight in tiny shriveled trees 
With cicatrices telling of great age, 

Small Fujiyamas threaten mimic rage, 

A storm of petals tangle in the breeze . . . 

A Babylonian garden hung with art 
Turns trivial at sight of a wild gorge 
Verdured to stop the warm blood in the heart, 
Lips are still, near a cleft where herons lodge! 
Only the chiseling of sculptural time 
Could mold the color in a cliff of lime! 


EQUATION 


Why are we not contented just to be 
As sleepy cats or light birds on the wing? 
Why should we yearn or ache for anything 
But creature comfort, food, and lethargy? 

We have a world in common with the flea 
That may choose to assail the proudest king, 
A bee may buzz succintly as we sing— 
Leopards look for their own the same as we. 
Our needs may be the needs of the wild beast 
That lies at ease until a quick scent blows, 
But his heart does not sicken at a feast, 

He is not troubled by a thing he knows! 

Sad, we have not his peace of mind at least— 
What is a star to him, or a white rose! 


CROWDED STREET 


Why do they try to stand upon their feet, 

Going the harder way when they might crawl— 
What power holds them so they do not fall 
And go on all fours down the dusty street? 

Man could not be so swift as the lithe cougar, 

But he might be as agile as the ape— 

The two are not dissimilar in shape— 

Surely men do not strain to glimpse a star! 

There is a gleaming strangeness in their eyes, 

A glint obscurely dark yet luminous 
As if they had been cut from stormy skies, 

Though dull or blind, still vaguely glorious . . . 
Has some ill bent and dwarfed these curious clods? 
Are they mere animals or injured gods? 


PHASES 


Today I passed two paths where I have been 
Through other phases—call them what you will, 

Those hours when we pass through death breathing still 
Once I was high, one path was steep as sin. 

How could I lift so effortless and high, 

Unconscious as a cloud of flesh, and free? 

I might have walked upon the deepest sea. 

Worlds at my feet, wreathed by the highest sky. 
Somehow I forced rebellious feet to go 
Down a black stony gorge another time, 

Though now I marvel that it could be so, 

In April my blood clogged as thick as rime. 
Incredulously, I went on my way, 

Prawn by the thoughts that took my breath today. 


MAGNET 


They go home weary with the day’s round, 

Storm may trumpet or south wind strum on muted strings 

They go in, and their shadowy doors are quiet 
As tired wings. 

Twilight has but little lure for them, 

They are deaf while a maple twitters, an aspen hums; 

They droop in chairs or by a tableside until 
The moon comes! 

They hear the call of that silent thing, 

That changeless, changing circle, that clot of golden haze! 

Houses open, out flood the eager—now they are young 
To the highways! 

Watching a slim curve of mellow light— 

There are other lights nearer: a candle, a white arc . . . 

Why should faces lift to a bubble gleaming 
In the dark! 

Is there a kinship, a memory? 

Steps are quick as lovers’ steps, when love has just begun; 

Over the moon trail they go their eyes glowing 
Like the sun! 


NOSTALGIA 


I do not care, what does it mean to me 
If gulls stand in the sky and shake their wings, 

What if wind splinters on a tree and rings 
In Canterbury bells, and the plush bee 
Clambers into bee-larkspur greedily; 

I do not care if honeysuckle swings 
Sweet in the air, if every petal flings 
A shower of light and sharp perfumery. 

Sea horses may ride lathered thick with foam, 

Fish hawks may plunge from heaven, swift and fearless, 
Today I care only for my own home— 

I go like Nydia through loveliness. 

This whole star might be mine from crust to core— 

I want to feel the old walls near once more! 




MULLEIN CHARM 


Place your hands round the mullein’s root, 
Slip your fingers up, 

Clasp as light as if you held 
A fragile cup. 

The slim and satin stalk flows through 
Leaves of evening green, 

All that was dark is blotted out— 

The gross, the mean, 

Fade utterly where mullein is . . . 

When you are back in town, 

You will recall the perfumed touch 
Of mullein down. 


FLAIL 


What do I care for sorrow, 

What if my heart is wrung! 

There are words that must be written 
Songs that must be sung . . . 

Defoe lay down in Newgate, 

Raleigh went to gaol, 

Shakespeare, Dante, many yielded 
Under sorrow’s flail. 

How could a little tinker 
Ever hope to sing 

Without prison or, at least, 

Grief and suffering . . . 

Travail is a bitter thing, 

Let my heart be wrung— 

There are words that must be written, 
Songs that must be sung. 


CONVICTION 


I have known houses before this, 
A large house, and a small— 
When I go in a high door 
I think of a torchlit hall. 

A golden dais glimmers 
At the far end, 

I walk in a path of steel— 

And the eyes of a friend. 

The air is hung with warm silks, 
Grey faces pit the room, 

A bugle blasts a long sound, 
Doom, it cries, doom! 

A little place seems slightly large, 
I think the walls may close 
And hold me very cold and still 
Clasping a wet rose. 


DREAMERS 


Is it a dream that we are different? 

Can it be true we are the same as they— 

Those beasts forever tearing at their prey, 
Seeming so sleek yet always on the scent? 

Our talons hide in pale pear blossom flesh, 

Cold cunning lurks beneath our fragile skin. 

Oh we are strange and terrible within— 

Our slender hands can lay a snaring mesh l 
Still, do beasts hold hushed visions as they go, 
By toiling sweat do they stretch spires high 
Aching to wring a solace from the sky, 

And crying of a High White Thing they know! 
Are we mere beasts and cruel as we seem, 

Or are we different because we dream! 


AFTERGLOW 


Pass by in the thrum of the hurrying street, 

Keep your thoughts distant and shadowy, so you will 
not know 

If one passing near you, in the crowd, is breathless, 

If sun turns to snow; 

Go, lofty and apart as a far dreamer, 

Do not bend your head suddenly nor let your eyes grow 
deep, 

The touch of the moon is still on your forehead . . . 
Dream, dream, stay asleep! 


URNS OF LIGHT 


I saw a woman call a beggar, friend. 

She was a flower creature swathed in silk, 

And by his dark face hers was smooth as milk— 
At length, their bodies will serve the same end. 
A ragged child, bent under a foul load, 

Has eyes, if I will clear my gaze and see, 

And I may stand within eternity 
Though my feet wallow in a dusty road. 

The story of a world would stretch a line 
Longer than countless aeons. How to tell 
The depth of eyes, the glory and the hell, 

In one poor flesh impeded song of mine— 

If my pen were a star dipped in dawn light, 

I might tell what I see in eyes, I might. . . . 




EBB TIDE 


He would not stoop even to stretch a hand 
Or speak in the old way, 

Being proud and wise, he knew 
There was no more to say. 

No use to supplicate the dead, 

The absent may not hear, 

Frost in the eyes or on the ground 
Means that winter is near. 

Another might feign in ballad fashion 
For memory’s sake, not he— 

He turned quietly as tide turns, 

And went away—brokenly. 


WORLDS MAY DARKEN 


Worlds may darken, 

Time may quench the sea, 
One thing shall live 
Immortally! 

All other life may pass, 
Turn to dust 
As last year’s grass— 

Yet, born of my pain, 

One cry shall ring 
Throughout eternity! 
Stars may grow cold 
While the centuries sing, 
“You wanted me! 

“You wanted me!” 


CESSATION 


Wintry blue may as well shadow the sunset, 

Lime yellow gather in the east, and trees ruffle their twigs 
and break, 

I shall not go where birches like ivory candles 
Light the rim of eel grass by the dark lake; 

The lake that was brilliant as blowing hair, 

Water that swayed a boat slipping without sound— 
Only a fool would tremble because a word was whispered, 
A fool that might be quiet in the ground. 


INDIFFERENT 


What if asters are a purple blur in the twilight, 

Honeysuckle like a smothering breath sways in the air, 
Petunias may as well drop their lavender satin, 

There will be none here, to care. 

Once, once, every grass tip was a thing of high wonder, 
No flower moon shed petals on forgotten stone; 
Perhaps the dead are indifferent to wind spice, 

As one, in the night, alone. 


IMPULSE 


I do not know 
A single thing 
To make me laugh, 

To make me sing— 

Oh I have seen 

Quick wind before, 
Syringa lighting 
A dark door; 

My eyes have watched 
A blinding sight, 

A mad petal’s 
Fettered flight! 

I do not know 
A single thing 
To make me laugh, 

To make me sing, 

Yet when wild April 
Flurries by, 

My feet will dance, 

I don’t know why! 


PECCAVI 


I said, I have no time for Christmas, 
I cannot stop this year 
To prattle merry nonsense 
And parrot cheer. 

I said, I will do my share quickly, 
Buy the bread, the meat, 

Candles, holly—and fling coins 
Into the beggars’ street. 

I will send toys to a child or two, 
But I can’t go caroling, 

I have engrossing thoughts to think, 
I cannot stop to sing! 

Still, Christmas is drawing silently, 

I wake in the hushed night, 

My eyes are straining to the east, 
Waiting, the white light. 


I COULD BE CRESSID 


High in a flower-lit tower, 

I could be Cressid—an hour; 

Through the dusk of a balcony. 

Your voice could call to me; 

In white, I could go through the scent 
Of the moon to your darkened tent. 

You could play Troilus, no doubt! 

Oh we could shut the world out! 

I could be Cressid and play— 

But what, if I wanted to stay? 

Oh I am silly and dense, 

In this world, I want permanence! 


GULLS 


Wild gulls, winged 
To soar and hover, 

What do you find— 
What discover? 

Do you vainly 
Search the sky, 

Never knowing 
A reason why? 

Do you follow, 
Blindly grope, 

Even as I 
Follow hope? 

Is the flight 
I envy you 

But a doomed act 
You must do? 

Is your flight 

A shackled thing? 

You who touch stars 
With a wing! 


IRREDUCIBLE 


I must repeat it—I do not believe 
That we are dust and must return to dust! 

Attack me with old maxims if you must, 

Words that are empty letters cannot grieve 
Suppose the aeons are a mighty sieve, 

Shaking us through—stars, moons, cries, love, and lust 

All in the end a spurt of golden rust 

Shot down a black sky with the wind’s last heave. 

Shall we go spinning in the shining motes? 

Our precious flesh and bones may go, it’s true, 
Crumbling with statues, towers, mighty boats. 

But what of our impulsive residue, 

The spur that has been aching in our throats? 

I shall not turn to dust, neither will you! 


A WORD THAT WAS MADE 


The perpetuity we call years— 

Years sweep far and low, 

Whirling us from snow to violets, 

From roses to snow; 

The continuity we call years— 

Years crumple a hill, 

Drown an Atlantis, snuff a sea, 

And sweep on still . . . 

Years are not stopped by flesh or bone, 

By thought or cry: 

The cycles sweep unheeding 
“I—” “I want—” “I—" 

Yet some have hungered and thirsted well 
A Coptic bowl, a Venus,— 

And a word that was made in Nineveh 
Comes down to us. 


INALIENABLE 


Ask me to labor till my breath is gone, 

Ask me to bear unbearable pain, 

I will turn from the bread I long for, 

Turn my eyes, if need be, from wind light, see only rain. 

I can bring my high mind to cool wisdom, 

Curbing my pulse while earth and sky slip; 

Ask all of me, do not take my birthright— 

None can be born or die for me, only I can steer my ship. 


BROKEN WALLS 


Men have taken down these honeycombs of laughter, 
Walls brimming with nectar are broken on the ground, 

Yesterday they rippled to the highest rafter, 

Now winds, like yellow and black bees, suck the sound. 

This was not a young house freshly cut from the forest 
These trees may have forgotten to thirst for sap, 

A new room is hollow as a March robin nest, 

Sound strikes the empty walls with a ghostly tap. 

Do the passing people see a sign of tears— 

Marks that bore into a wall when a voice grieves? 

Oh the cells that filled with crying through the years 
The whispers, the sighs clinging under the eaves! 

Do the hurrying ones hear low tones in an old wall, 
Hushed word of a lover husband or a lover wife? 

Do they hear a frightened moan, a shuddering call, 

The gasping cry of a small throat tasting life? 

Hammers have broken the song of little feet, 

Parted the voices that mingled and breathed as one, 

Prayer that lifted because a child’s cheek was clover sweet, 
Sobs that fell when open eyes could not see the sun. 

If you lay your face close you may feel a light sound 
Oozing from honeycomb filled with the flow of years; 

Precious words are strewn upon the dusty ground— 

The wind bees are sipping laughter and priceless tears. 






























